Musings Of The Muses
by Raine Lionheart
Summary: The muses on an off day.


****

Musings of the Muses

Melodies echo in the predawn light that lingers just below the horizon. The misty fog clings to the mountains' peaks like an extra layer of skin, protecting the chilling peaks from onlookers. The air is frigid, almost unbearable to the most warm-blooded of creatures.

Euterpe's quill scratches against his parchment as the resounding symphony of voices fills him with ideas. The mortals' harmony causes a sigh to rise from his lips as he sinks deeper into serenity. The tranquility of it all is soothing to the muse.

His siblings surround him in a sort of vigil. Calliope, the sister of whom writes tales that span years; she calls her tales epics. Clio, whose prowess is that of the mortal past. Melpomene, the melodramatic brother who spins tales of death and melancholy. Terpsichore is the brother whose artistic movements, combined with music, is a spectacle beyond perception. Erato, whom his sibling refer to as the lover, writes his own brand of passionate and romantic poems. Polyhymnia's talent is that of the sacred poems, which she find more interesting than any other. Urania looks towards the stars night after night with her brother Thalia, whose comments are the source of much laughter. 

Euterpe himself is the inspiration of man's music. He holds this with pride as his scratches continue over the page.

__

And then there was silence

Just a voice from other world

Like a leaf in an icy world

Memories will fade.

"I do say, dear brother," Thalia muses, "your music is becoming quite drab. I'd expect it from Melpomene, rather. But you no less!" Thalia huffs in mock-rage.

"Oh, quiet," Eutrepe snaps. "This is a song for Troy's Downfall, fool. A great man shall sing of this one day."

"Aye, a great man with a head larger than Erato's own!"

The offended says only, "Words are but words, not poison tipped darts, dear Thalia."

Calliope looks over her brother's shoulder and reads aloud, "_Misty tales and poems lost, all the bliss and beauty will be gone_. Quite depressing indeed. Not at all your style. More one of mine epics, Euterpe. Much too long. It is not the way of music."

"Aye!" Thalia cries, "But 'tis _a _way of music, _a_ way! I do believe that we established this trait many a year ago, brothers and sisters."

"Three hundred," Clio murmurs.

"As the stars do change," Urania agrees.

"Really," Calliope says, "this depression is terrible. Man shall be weakened beyond their weakened state."

"Hark, doth thy hear the prediction of the wise one?" Thalia is on his feet, prancing about.

"And what of it?" Euterpe asks bitterly. "What is it to my siblings if I am to suffer from the melancholy man knows great than us?"

"To your siblings," Melpomene says softly, "it is as maddening as it is saddening. A burden you shall not understand until your final days."

"Now, baby brother," Thalia says with the air of venerable town idiot, "this burden you speak of… what has it to do with our saddened (yet maddened) sibling?"

Terpsichore quips, "You shall see in future days, O he who is laughed at by asses and goats."

Erato has taken to his own parchment now. His words flow from his quill as water trickles from a creek, across the pages in crisp stanzas of love, lust and passion.

"The erotic works are plagued," Calliope comments as her own pages and quill are brought forth. "The world needs not more smut, yet less. A smear campaign shall soon follow, lover brother."

"The works of lovers and their dazzling adventures shall be valued by generations of women, young and old. I suggest you start now, Calliope, before your dreaded hair falls from your scalp."

"A fool you are, Erato. You shall regret your words, for I will burn the name of love."

"Burn you will Erato," Urania says flippantly, her stare still upon the heavens above. "Calliope means no words lightly."

"She never has," comes Clio almost mournfully.

A brief silence is broken by the comedian. "Why hasn't our dearest of sisters Polyhymnia said a word as of late?"

"Our dearest of dear sisters has taken to silence for this century, Thalia," Euterpe says with a smile upon his face. Polyhymnia herself glares towards the offender, who feigns inoccence.

"He who is too witty shall be without one's tongue," comes the acid reply.

"Poor Thalia may wish for a covering of his own mouth," Terpsichore remarks, receiving a glare from the comedian.

The writing continues onward for many minutes before Euterpe abruptly stands and leaves.

"Alas, you depart," Thalia moans. "Farewell, Euterpe. Farewell, farewell. Farewell!"

"Farewell yourself, you insolent tart."

"A spear to the heart!" is the last thing heard before Euterpe vanishes.


End file.
